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thrdlss · 3 years

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When I first came to the Capitol as a bright-eyed intern, my future as a full-fledged reporter still nothing but a lofty goal, of course I saw the Grand Auditoré Opera House upon the steps at Aldrin Square. You can't come to the Capitol and not see the opera house, with its sweeping white and gold geometries that seem to be daring physics to call them impossible. But like most people, it never crossed my mind that someday I might actually get to step foot inside, let alone take in one of the performances.

So when my boss came to my desk and informed me I would be doing a piece on the newest performance, I was as shocked as I was elated—and then I heard just what the performance was to be. Not only was it a Beni Giana production and not only was the performer a durakhoule¹, but the performer was the durakhoule.

If you've never heard of Kaitra, I'd question whether you'd ever heard of durakhoule at all. Few of Kaitra's kind ever become well-known enough to be recognized by name alone, but Kaitra is yet another cut above. Much of the reason for this is undoubtedly its benefactor, a man who somehow manages to be even more well-known: Sylaz Asryssian, CEO of Adastra, one of the most major of major players in the upper echelons of the megacorporation arena.

Mr. Asryssian was hardly the only recognizable person expected to be in attendance. On the night of the show, I would pick out among the crowd Fernessi Boulvarde, Aberdeen Corivandi, and Mikel Ariko. I even saw Mr. Asryssian himself up in the owners' box—the best seat in the house. It was surreal, knowing that he and I were in the same room at the same time. Little did I know that things would only get more surreal as I took my seat and the show began.

They say the singing of the durakhoule bears striking similarities to the so-called “whale song” of the long-dead cetaceans. Now having heard both, I would say the comparison holds up more strongly than I could have thought. Who could ever have expected that such a slight creature as the durakhoule I saw on stage could produce sounds so dark and deep that my hindbrain can't help but think they were produced by some leviathan?

The highest heights of the extended aria that composed the entire show produced horripilation so sharply it was almost painful, and the deepest of the notes thrummed through me—through my very bones. Earlier on during the show, I couldn't decide whether it was more accurate to say that I heard the durakhoule singing or that I felt it. I can only imagine what the show is like when perceived through the lens of the ultra-high-end pershifts² that were available for purchase (but far outside my price range).

And that was before the lights went out.

Anyone who's been to a durakhoule show can tell you they're light shows as much as they're musical performances. At some point, the lights always go down, and the durakhoule performer lights up. Flashing, flickering bioluminescence reflects off iridescent scales and casts flecks of multicolored light across the stage, the audience—everything. It's like being inside a kaleidoscope. Such a display is enthralling no matter the venue, but in the Auditoré—where the venue has been meticulously constructed to deliver the maximum impact for each performance—the effect is so consuming I couldn't be sure I actually hadn't taken any pershifts.

Most durakhoule don't speak, and so their performances rarely incorporate any sort of libretto, leaving the vocals to stand on their own merit as pure sound. This performance was no different. It's likely for the best—adding any sort of concrete meaning to any part of the experience might have been enough to tip the scale onto the side of completely overwhelming.

Emotion flowed without narrative anyway. The warm, welcoming soundscape of the performance's opening—gentle vibrato interspersed by gleeful trilling, like the most wonderful birdsong fluttering through the trees as you and your partner sit beneath the boughs, sharing idealized thoughts about how bright the future ahead seems to be—was shattered by discordant, booming bass and urgent, piercing staccato that built to a head and then erupted into a melodic wail that sounded the way it feels to run a blade across a honing steel. It sounded like screaming all of God's failings at him. It sounded like being present at the end of the world and being powerless to do anything but watch it go.

The crescendo retreated into the barest whispers of sound and the slightest hints of light, and I realized I was weeping. I think everyone was. The noises of restrained despair among us in the audience layered so perfectly with the soft, melancholic thrumming of the durakhoule that I can't help but wonder if the pairing had been planned from the start.

Whatever the story here, it did not have a happy ending. Serenity was devoured by chaos, leaving nothing in its wake but the deepest sense of loss and the most profound loneliness I've ever felt. And that's the key here: feeling. I was wrong before, when I thought I couldn't decide whether the singing of a durakhoule is heard or felt. It is absolutely felt.

If you're anything like me, dear reader, this article will likely be the closest you'll ever get to experiencing such a performance yourself. But if—also like me—Lady Luck decides to drop into your lap the opportunity to see a durakhoule—any durakhoule but especially primo cantante Kaitra—perform, take the opportunity.

And if you're not like me—if you're one of the upper crust, wondering if these singing dragonfish are all they're cracked up to be—I'll say this: I can't imagine there's anything else in the galaxy that could compare. What I've written here is a pale, inadequate description of the experience. I don't think words can do any better than that.

¹durakhoule: members of a nearly extinct race of anthropomorphic beings that bear a superficial resemblance to something between lizards and fish.

²pershifts: perception shifters; polite-society terminology for psychoactive drugs.

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